


Spones Ficlets

by WhatIfImaMermaid



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2018-12-08 18:58:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11652690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatIfImaMermaid/pseuds/WhatIfImaMermaid
Summary: Just Spones ficlets and snippets from Tumblr, etc.





	1. The 11th (House-hunting)

**Author's Note:**

> What can I say? All my favorite writers have their ficlets on AO3 and I wanted to be like them:)

After they have visited the first, the realtor looks at them expectantly.

“So, do you think you like it?”

“Yes,” Spock says, at the same time as McCoy starts shaking his head entirely too dramatically. “No!”

They turn to face each other and exchange a lengthy look.

Spock can see the realtor’s concerned expression from the corner of his eye.

~

The main flaw of the second is that its ceilings are uncommonly high, and heating the space would cost a fortune, as well as pollute more than either of them can conscientiously accept.

“Spock is like a rare orchid, you see, in that he requires a temperature of one hundred degrees at all times to survive,” McCoy explains with mock concern to the realtor. “He is also just as lively. In case you hadn’t noticed.”

~

The third is acceptable.

They inform the realtor that they are considering making an offer.

“Oh, that’s great! Your friend actually just put in a bid for a property just one block from here.”

McCoy and Spock exchange a glance. “Our friend?”

“Yes. The one who referred me to the two of you? Jim Kirk? Hey, wait! Where are you going? I thought you wanted…“

~

The fourth is just awful, except—

“The fireplace.”

“What about the fireplace?”

The realtor— _Sheila, Spock, Sheila. Dammit, you see her more than you see your father, just use her damn name_ —is hovering nearby. Which is probably the reason why McCoy puts his lips to Spock’s ear before speaking.

“I could fuck you very nicely, in front of it.”

~

The fifth appears acceptable until they hear a bell ringing on the opposite side of the road. A minute later, tens of kids pour into the courtyard. Spock looks from the window and wonders how approximately seventy children can sound like several hundred. Millions.

McCoy grabs the sleeve of Spock’s button-down. “Let’s get the fuck outta here.”

~

The sixth is, objectively, the best property they have visited so far.

However, it happens to be located significantly closer to the hospital than to the university, and Spock’s commuting time would be three times longer than McCoy’s.

“No. The garage is too small.”

“Spock, you don’t even own a fucking car!”

Spock ignores him and turns expectantly to Sheila. 

It is, after all, a matter of principle.

~

The seventh is three minutes on foot from the university campus.

“Nah. Veto. I really don’t like the color of the windowsills.” McCoy is leaning carelessly against the doorjamb, and does not even attempt to hide his smile.

~

Spock considers himself to be a patient man, but by the eighth he mostly wishes for the process to end.

“This one appears suitable.”

“It’s crap. The plumbing would need to be completely redone, and we could never tear down that awful wall, plus this neighborhood’s only good if you have an abduction kink.”  

Spock does not attempt to restrain his eye-roll.

“I am not certain I wish to live with you, at this juncture.”

McCoy leans towards him, a small smile on his lips. A hand slips beneath Spock’s henley, the thumb drawing patterns on Spock’s hipbone.

“I’m pretty positive I’ve never, ever voluntarily spent time in your company. Not one single millisecond. And yet, here we are.”

“Truly inexplicable.”

McCoy’s breath is warm against Spock’s lips. “I was gonna say _fascinating_.”

They break apart when Sheila clears her throat. 

Loudly.

Twice.

~

The ninth is simply too large.

“We do not require this number of rooms.”

“Would be nice, though.”

“Why would having more rooms than necessary be ‘nice’?”

McCoy pinches Spock’s hip as he walks to the window. “Think of it like this: the larger the house, the less we gotta see each other.”

Spock frowns. “I had not considered that.” He quickly steps into the en suite bathroom.

He hears Sheila whisper, “That seemed pretty harsh. Is he, um, mad now?”

Spock can picture McCoy’s smug smile perfectly. “Yep. But only ‘cause it didn’t occur to him first.”

~

The tenth has a fireplace, too.

As soon as he notices, Spock glances at McCoy, who is already looking back at him—first at his face, then letting his eyes slide down Spock’s body.

Spock feels his cheeks heat up.

~

The eleventh is…

Sheila looks nervously between the two of them. “So…?”

They remain silent.

“I know the fixtures look a little old, but they could be redone quite cheaply…”

They ignore her.

In each room, they look at each other, and then at the house, and then again at each other. 

It is, judging from the way Sheila seems to be making an effort to focus on her cell phone, an excessively large amount of eye contact.

But the house is…

It is…

_Stop trying to be perfect, Spock, perfection does not exist_ , his mother used to say.

After staring longingly at the breakfast nook for three minutes, McCoy clears his throat. 

“Mmm. So.”

Spock steps closer. “So?”

“I don’t know that I like it that much.”

Spock nods. “Agreed.”

“But I guess the size is fine. Location is okay.” McCoy shrugs. “The sunroom’s not that bad.”

“It is not.”

“It’s a meh house, I guess.”

“You are as articulate as ever.”

Sheila looks between them suspiciously. “Ehm, so…are you interested in making an offer?”

Spock meets McCoy’s eyes. They both immediately look elsewhere.

McCoy clears his throat. “I guess we could.”

Spock nods again, hesitantly.

“Okay.” Sheila says cautiously. “What percent of the asking price would you like me to—”

They reply at the same time. 

“Full.”

Sheila smiles widely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This now has a sequel of sort in [Chapter 4](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11652690/chapters/27768600)


	2. The tag

“Why won’t it let me submit it?”

The report’s not too long, he counted the words, and he’s pretty sure the recipient’s name is fine, and why the fuck does the—

McCoy feels the heat first, a shift of warm air with a familiar, barely-there smell. His shoulders tense.

“You will need to authenticate.”

“What the—? I already have.”

“You have not, as you can tell by—” Spock leans over, typing something quickly, so inhumanly fast that McCoy would never be able to do the same, even if he were to move his fingers at random “—the metadata.”

McCoy wills the metadata to die of leprosy. Spock, too.

“Who asked  _you_?”

“You were speaking. As I am the only other remaining occupant of the room—”

McCoy looks around. Spock  _is_  the only other person in the conference room. Where the hell did the others go?

“I was thinking out loud.”

“Among the first symptoms of delusional psychosis.”

“I’m gonna give you the symptoms of a concussion if you don’t leave me alo—”

“Sent.”

Spock straightens and McCoy’s eyes narrow, first on Spock, then on the computer, where the receipt file is open, proof that his report has already been delivered. He leans forward to study it. How the hell—?

He feels a soft touch on the nape of his neck, warm fingers dipping inside his undershirt and lingering perhaps a second, or two— _three?_ —, then slipping out.

When he looks up, Spock’s cheekbones are dusted with green.

“The tag of your uniform was protruding.”

He’s out of the room before McCoy can say anything


	3. One Foot in Another World (The Meld)

“This would work better if—”

“It’s fine.”

“—you tried to relax—”

“Shut it, Spock.”

“—at least marginally.”

“Just get it over with.”

He says it, and at the very same times he moves back half-involuntarily, his face leaning away from Spock’s. More to the point, away from Spock’s raised hand. Still within easy reach, though. Not that McCoy has reason be worried Spock’s gonna force him or anything, since the past few weeks have been nothing but an endless repetition of  _You do not have to_ , and  _It is not necessary_ , and  _Unlike a significant decrease in the volume of your snoring, this is not indispensable to the continuation of our…arrangement_. 

 _Relationship_ , Spock meant. Not that it’s a word either of them would ever use. Out loud, at least. 

“Perhaps it is best if we…” Spock presses his lips together for a second. “Desist.”

Desist, his ass.

“What, you having second thoughts? My mind’s not good enough for yours? Not green enough? Not  _pointy_  enough?”

There should be nothing to smile about here, and yet Spock’s eyebrow rises and McCoy feels the corner of his mouth lift in response. He tries to hide it, rolling his eyes and leaning forward again, letting his hand slip under Spock’s uniform to trace the dimples on his lower back— _they are deep-to-superficial skin ligaments, doctor. Perhaps an anatomy refresher is in order_ —, the ones that some nights are all he can see when he closes his eyes. The ones he likes to press his thumbs into while—

“There is a strict code of ethics, to Vulcan mind melds.”

McCoy draws Spock closer.

“Strict? Vulcan? No way.”

“All parties must be willing.”

“Listen. I said wanted to.”

“And yet.”

“Just… it’s weird, that’s all.”

Thing is. It’s weird  _to McCoy_. To Spock, it’s probably not any weirder than McCoy insisting on picking up the tab the way-too-few times they go out for dinner on some ancient, middle-of-nowhere starbase, or than his frankly alarming obsession with Spock’s ears, or even than the spooning, comes to think of.

And McCoy has to admit—grudgingly—that Spock has been nothing but… accommodating. To all of it. Accepting, in that goddamn calm, nonjudgmental way he has, and what McCoy wouldn’t give right now to go back to when he thought Spock was nothing but an arrogant dick.

Because then, maybe, he’d be able to avoid—

“You are uncomfortable.”

“No.” He shakes his head, and isn’t that  _fascinating_ , how in this  _arrangement_  there are exactly zero good liars. “Maybe. I don’t know. For fuck’s sake, it’s fine. What’s the worst that can happen?” He waits for five, ten seconds for Spock to say something. When he cocks his head and just looks back at him, searching, McCoy gives up and answers himself. “You… come in, you don’t like it in here,”  _in me_ , “I don’t like it in there,”  _in you_ , “and then we both just get the hell out. I’ve got twenty reports to finish up tonight, anyway. It’s fine. Just do it.”

Why Spock is suddenly smiling that soft, indulgent non-smile he’ll never know, but it’s fucking annoying, and at this point Spock can lower his goddamn fingers and step back, ‘cause if he thinks McCoy’s gonna let him meld them while he’s obviously being condescended with and laughed at, he can think a—

— _gain_.

It feels…

It’s not…

Maybe—

“Acceptable?”

McCoy exhales. Inhales. Exhales, again.

“Doctor. Is this acceptable?”

McCoy nods, and opens his mouth, and it feels…slow. Clunky.

_Yeah. Acceptable._

Melds are not about sex, Spock had told McCoy, quite reprovingly, when the topic first came up. Only to proceed to ghost his fingertips across McCoy’s cheekbones whenever McCoy would—they would—and  _how_? How can this  _not_  be about sex, is definitely not clear to him.

“It requires planning. Perhaps—“ Spock swallows “—next time.” 

Next time.

_It’s not that bad. With you in here._

Spock’s amusement is everywhere. Everywhere.  _If you have twenty reports to write and are pressed for time, I can ‘get the hell out’ immedia—_

 _No_. His hand wraps around Spock’s wrist.  _Stay_.


	4. The passage of time as it varies by season (Forget-me-nots)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Could be a sequel to [Chapter 1 (House hunting)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11652690/chapters/26216046)

Jim gives them the seeds the day after they move in.

“Because you guys have a huge ass yard now.”

It appears to be spurious reasoning at best, as there are many uses for a yard that do not include planting seeds, but it has been years, and by now Spock knows Jim well enough to simply nod and say, “Thank you.”

“What happened to booze as a housewarming gift?” McCoy’s smile is faint as he leans against the wall, his t-shirt and jeans well-worn and liberally smudged with white paint.  

“Bones. I know for a fact that you don’t need any more booze.” He suddenly breaks into a grin. “Just kidding. Everyone needs more booze.” He extracts an expensive looking bottle from his backpack with a flourish, and McCoy’s smile gets wider as he instantly recognizes the type without the need to read the label. Spock chooses not dwell on what this reveals about his drinking habits.

When McCoy swings an arm over Jim’s shoulders and steers him toward the kitchen, Spock just stares at their backs, shaking his head.

~

It is not until a week later that the package of seeds catches McCoy’s eyes from the coffee table in front of the couch. Most of the boxes are still half unpacked, to Spock’s unending frustration—and McCoy’s unending amusement.

“What kind of plants are those for, anyway?” The voice is deep and a little hoarse, vibrating through McCoy’s chest and Spock’s back. The sweat is still cooling on their bodies.

“Forget-me-nots.”

McCoy snorts, and Spock feels warm air on the back of his neck. “You think he’s trying to tell us something?”

“Perhaps to you. He is well aware that I have an eidetic memo— _ouch_.” Most painful, this new habit of pinching his hip McCoy has developed.

“You gonna plant them?”

Spock shifts and turns slightly. “Why should the garden be my responsibility?”

“‘Cause I fixed the toilet yesterday. You’re welcome.” McCoy yawns, and his lips brush the skin of Spock’s temple. “And some vitamin D will do you good. Help you get rid of that sickly complexion you academics get.”

Spock says nothing, out of principle, but thinks _‘Very well’_. 

~

He has never taken care of a plant before. The garden was always his mother’s realm, and Spock has long come to terms with the fact that in most things he takes after his father. 

He does not like that, about himself.

“If you plant them now, they should bloom by the fall.” Hikaru smiles reassuringly. “They’re basically weeds. The care is minimal. Believe me, you can’t screw this up.”

Spock hesitates for a heartbeat and then nods, the package of seeds a slight weight in his palm.

~

He surveys the yard and chooses an appropriate patch— _moist soil, indirect light_ —on March 31. And then again on the first of April. And on the second. And on the—

“Oh, come on, Spock. Just get out and pick a damn spot. It’s not rocket science.” 

Regrettably, Spock thinks.

Most of the seeds are in the ground when McCoy comes to find him.  

“Put this on.” He hands him a small tube. The label says _SPF 120_.

“I did not know a protection factor this high was available.”

“I had the makers come up with it just for your delicate princess of a skin. Put it on.”

“Now?”

“No, after sunset. Yes, now. Chop-chop.”

“At this juncture, I am unlikely to suffer a sunburn—”

“Or I can help you put it on. In case you want me to.” McCoy’s eyes slide down Spock’s body. “In case you don’t remember how that ended last time.”

Spock remembers. 

However, he also wishes to complete the task at hand without distractions, so he unscrews the cap and proceeds to apply the sunblock.

~

Spock shifts, and a hand immediately tightens on his waist. “Hey. Where do you think you’re going?” McCoy is already slightly out of breath, and his voice is husky.

Spock presses a kiss into the hollow of his throat as he slips from underneath him. “There is something I neglected to do. I will return shortly.”

“Something you neglected to—Spock, we’re in the middle of…. Are you having a brain fart? It’s summer. You’re off work. Your syllabi were ready twelve years ago.”

“It is not work relate,” he says, while slipping his boxer briefs back on.

The hour is late, and he does not like to turn on the lights after his eyes have habituated to the dark, with the consequence that it takes him a while to find the watering can. The grass of the yard feels soft and warm under his bare feet. It has been an uncommonly hot summer.

“You know, it ain’t exactly flattering that you remember to water Jim’s damn flowers when I’m about thirty seconds from fucking you.”

Spock stares as the last droplets of water sink into ground. “That is not a concern, since your ego is not in need of any flattery.”

He expects some cutting retort, and when it is late to come he turns to look at McCoy. Who is eyeing the wet patch of soil inquisitively. He did not put his underwear back on before following Spock downstairs. And he is still—

“If you tell anyone I said so I’ll flatly deny it, but you’re cute when you get into one of your obsessive phases.”

“Am I?” Spock feels himself being pushed against the wall. His breath hitches.

“Well. Passably cute. Sort of cute.”

“We should not—” McCoy presses into him. It feels—

“What? Not in front of the flowers?”

Spock’s eyes shut tight. “The flowers have not sprouted yet.”

McCoy bites his earlobe. “Then shut up.”

As usual in these matters, McCoy wins.

~

“It’s not that uncommon.” Hikaru shrugs. “It just means they’ll skip this year’s cycle. You’ll probably have flowers by next spring.”

Spock stares at the still brown patch of soil. Keeping the fall leaves off it has proven to be a bit of challenge. “Is there anything else I ought to be doing?”

“Nah.”

“What about the winter?”

“It’ll be fine. Doesn’t get that cold here, anyway.”

“Will a hothouse be necessary?”

“A hothouse? For forget-me-nots?” Hikaru’s eyebrow is raised. It is, Spock must admit, an uncomfortable expression to be subjected to. No wonder his students have commented upon it in their evaluations.

“Perhaps I should have installed a drip irrigation system.”

“Spock, relax. It’s not you. Flowers can be stubborn. Ultimately, they do whatever they want.”

“Reminds me of someone!” McCoy yells from the kitchen, and Hikaru turns slightly to hide a smile in the collar of jacket.

Spock resolves to install that drip irrigation system as soon as possible.

~

“It’s not even an inch.”

“It is one point three centimeters.”

“Yeah. Right. Whatever that means. It’ll melt in a jiffy.”

“It is unlikely to melt in thirty-three picoseconds.”

McCoy looks taken aback. “What? Is that what ‘jiffy’ means?”

Spock keeps staring a the garden patch. “It represents the time light takes to travel the distance of one centimeter in a vacu—”

“Yeah, yeah, fascinating. Hey.” McCoy pokes him in the side. A most annoying habit, although it is rendered less painful by the layers of clothing they are both wearing. “The plants are gonna be fine.”

“They are not plants yet.”

McCoy waves a hand dismissively. “Seeds. Whatever.” How he can bear to be outside without gloves, Spock will never understand. The breeze is icy, the temperature near-freezing, and the unusual cold is likely to last for several more months. It is simply unreasonable to expect that the seeds will—

“You know what?” McCoy inches closer, effectively blocking the wind. The temperature suddenly feels bearable. “Let’s just plant stuff together when spring comes. We’ll figure this gardening business out.”

“You do not have any more experience that I do.”

McCoy shrugs. “You mother left us all those books we can look into.” He presses into Spock’s side. “And I’m a doctor. It’s gotta count for something.”

“I am a doctor, too.”

“Yeah, but I’m a real doctor.” McCoy leans forward to kiss him before Spock can quip a response, and his lips are cold and warm at the same time. 

Illogical.

~

The first plant sprouts on March 19. McCoy is the first to notice, which annoys Spock more than he is prepared to admit. The second and the third are visible the following day. By March 23, the whole plot is peppered with green.

“Tone it down with that look of overwhelming pride, ‘kay?”

Spock is reasonably certain that has never looked overwhelming anything.

When they have Jim and Nyota over for dinner, the patch is covered with short, healthy plants. 

“The care of the flowers is his number one priority, at this point. I think he might have a started a college fund for them. Really makes me look forward to how obsessive he’s gone be when we’re gonna have kids.” They have never discussed children before, so Spock lingers in the kitchen and pretends he did not overhear the conversation.

When the first flower blossoms, they are both…

Confused.

“I guess I thought it’d be…” McCoy holds his hands up in a shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe less…”

“Purple?”

“Yeah. And more…”

“Blue?”

“Exactly.”

“Perhaps this is an uncommon variety of forget-me-nots.”

“Right. Must be. We should show it to Sulu. Maybe it’s rare. We’ll become gardening legends and get invited on that stupid Sunday morning show on BBC.”

As soon as he sees the flower, Hikaru bursts out laughing. So does Ben from three steps behind him, although slightly more diplomatically.

“Guys. Really?”

Spock and McCoy exchange a blank glance. Ben covers his widening smile with his hand.

“Come on. You two are supposed to be geniuses. Leaders in your fields.”  
Another glance, this time utterly puzzled.

“Really?” He repeats. “Guys. These are violets.”

The silence stretches for a handful of seconds. Out of the corner of his eye, Spock sees McCoy scratch the back of his neck as he considers that, indeed, the flower does look remarkably similar to a wild violet.

“But the label said…”

Hikaru shrugs. “Eh. Labels-shmabels. Sellers get them wrong all the time.”

“And we _did_ get the seeds from Jim,” McCoy adds, shaking his head.

Hikaru laughs. “Well, that explains it.” He claps his hands on both their shoulders. “So, what are you gardening legends planting next?”

Spock just looks at McCoy, expectantly. 

McCoy stares back at him and smiles, a little lopsided. “How ’bout some damn forget-me-nots?”


End file.
